


Just Let Me Hold Your Hand.

by yuuniioo



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: HH, M/M, i dont actually think im qualified to write this but, its an arranged marriage au, more characters will be added, originally just a cute idea now its a full au i cant stop thinking about, prince AU, tags will change, this is cliche, this is for carl, this is just mmk bs, this whole tag section is wild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-10-27 04:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuuniioo/pseuds/yuuniioo
Summary: Makoto has come to accept that one day he'd be married off to appease some sort of disagreement for his kingdom; so when it happens, he's surprised to find that his future husband is more than a little charming.Mao was dreading the thought of being tied down to someone he didn't even know, but this warm feeling he gets being around his fiance was not to be expected.Alternatively titled: Maomako are engaged to eachother and slowly fall in love when they don't expect it.





	Just Let Me Hold Your Hand.

The quaint tap of his shoes on the pearly marble floors swirled in his ears. It was a little bit too loud for his liking, two seperate pitches of clicking along the floor joining the cocophony as Makoto's mother taps his shoulder. His attention is pulled upwards from the passing creases in the tiles. He looks, scans over the smile of the woman in front of him as he walks, straightening his back as he realizes the slight downwards tilt of her eyebrows. Her face has always been soft, the creases that appear there are very subtle: ones he's only learned to notice over years of viewing the disappointed edges on repeat. He can't seem to make her stop.

He only realizes they've made it to their destination when he sees her turn her head forward. Letting out a sigh, he stops, blinking and straightening his attention back to his feet--it wasn't as if he could decipher anything ahead of him anyways. The pattern on his shoes is gold, a similar tone to the honey shade of his hair, something he liked to childishly point out every time he wore them--this was not one of those times. He tries his hardest to make out the subtle details in the fabric, distracting him from the words he hears his father utter, his voice nearly too loud to block from his ears. The next thing he knows he's following his parent's into a conference room.

He's gently ushered into a chair beside his mother, sitting quietly to the left of his father at one end of a long dark table. The room is far from quiet, the husky voice of his father mingling with another man's voice and quiet mutters across the width of the table between his mother and a woman with a soft laugh. He glances around, the faces of the people at the table fuzzy at best, their features blurring together. For a moment, Makoto feels alone, his lack of clear sight making him bite his lip. He tries his best to sit up straight, train his eyes on his hands, keep quiet. It's nothing he hasn't done before: he's used to sitting still and looking pretty.

He taps his fingers on the table lightly, staring blankly at the dark wood. He'd like to space out completely until it's time to go home--until he's pushed to the car and driven home in the silence of the back seat. He'd like to stare down at the creased wood all day long and hide his nerves behind a blank expression. But this time, he cant. He's forced to look up, nod his head and smile as a glass is struck with a ping, gaining the attention of the room. The man at the head of the table, his broad shoulders falling stiff as his laughter died in his throat. He spoke.

His voice was smooth and he stood so straight Makoto was sure he was a statue made of marble; He wondered if he'd have had to stand that straight had he been born with the backbone of a king, maybe he's thankful for his mistakes just this once. The man, however regal, had a voice that boomed, but dragged in a way Makoto's ears couldn't help but space out to. It didn't help that everything the king spoke about was exactly the same as his father had been drilling into his head for months.

When he had first proposed the idea, Makoto was horrified. The Northern Kingdom had announced a month prior that they were on the search for a spouse for their eldest son, and Makoto's father decided to promote him for the position. Sure, Makoto wanted to protest, wanted to shout and scream that this wasn't fair--wasn't right. But, the second he lifted his head and his broken, blurry eyes met those of his father's, he was struck down with the same stare of disappointment he'd seen a million times over. He sat up straight, stiffened his lower lip and glued his eyes to the table, twisting his hands over and over in his lap to distract him from the fear and shame he felt rising in his gut. He'd felt ashamed of his disposition: his inability to stand in front of a crowd, to speak without stuttering, to see without glasses. Makoto had tried, tried and tried to be good enough to be a proper heir, and it never seemed sufficient; maybe marrying him off to a future king was the answer. He'd always been good at being pretty, sitting still, smiling for cameras--he supposed this couldn't be avoided; as if his father would ever let the throne fall to him anyways. He accepted it, nodded his head and sat quiet in his seat, waiting for his excuse from the table and his retreat to his room to let himself fall apart.

His nerves never really died down. They rang in his ears and pricked at his cheeks as he sat still in the room that was far too big, as he listened to a speech far too long. He'd let his nerves grip at his cheeks and make his eyes water, its not like it's the first time. He felt the wood under his fingertips and was comforted by the lines that wove through it, barely dented into the material enough for him to feel from the lacquer spread so eavenly across its surface. Distractions soothed his itching nerves, but only for a moment. He's ripped back to the conversation as a silence hits his ears. Everyone is staring at him, though he isn't sure why, so he sits up straighter and smiles unsurely. 

Clearing his throat, his father speaks. "Makoto," His voice has an edge Makoto can't quite identify. "This is Mao, the Northern Kingdom's prince." He gestures towards the opposite side of the table, towards the maroon silhouette he initially believed was only the queen as it split in half, a thin--boy?--stands and makes a motion Makoto can only assume to be a bow.

"A pleasure," A smooth voice rings out, ringing in Makoto's ears like a sweet bell that shocks him slightly. 

Makoto can't quite make out any details about the boy, and it makes him a little nervous as he stands, cringing at the scraping sound the chairs legs make as they trace the ground. He plants his feet, smiling blindly and mirroring the other boys bow.

"The pleasures all mine," He hears his voice crack, not nearly as confident or sure as the other's greeting to him. He feels heat start to rise to his cheeks, regardless.

He hears a small, restrained chuckle come from the boy and immediately after the king clears his throat and Mao sits, once again joining the dark red shadow on the other side of the table. Makoto takes that a sign to take his seat, desperately trying to discern the other boys features across the table. 

Total relief flowed through his veins, a shock he couldn't pinpoint set his whole body into an overjoyed wreck of nerves. He'd utterly expected to be meeting an older man, someone in his mid-to-late thirties, to put an age to his anxieties. After all, not many kings were searching for a spouse for their sons at such any age similar to Makoto's, nor were they usually looking for a husband. Most of the horror stories he'd heard were of pretty little princes and princesses being sold off to older men looking for a cute little doll to keep around--an idea that had kept Makoto awake far too many nights, shaking and terrified. The realization that this boy was, in fact, a boy, was more than thrilling enough to soothe him for a thousand reasons.

Crossing his ankles under the table, Makoto directed his attention back to his hands, neatly folded over the glistening wood. The conversation between the two kings had resumed and he resorted to distracting himself for the remainder of the conference--which didn't seem to be too far from ending at this point. When the speaking wound down, the sun had begun to set and the room was starting to glow with the pink and crimson hues that shone in through the windows. The chairs were soon pulled from underneath them and Makoto stood, holding his back as straight as possible as he listened to his parents say thank-you's and shake hands. 

A resounding tap on the marble floor next to him made him swing his head defensively to his right, being met with the smiling face of a boy only a little smaller than himself. The boys eyes were bright and shone like emeralds in the set of the sun and his skin looked almost pink--maybe it was. His hair, however, _was_ pink--a bright red that fell over his face and cut the skin of his neck and cheeks alike. He had a charming smile on his face, his hands folded in front of him.

"I hope I didn't startle you," He began, his whisper of a voice hitting Makoto's ears like a stray ray of sun that escaped from the window--warm and resonant. "I suppose you didn't see me." His smile was growing, somethink Makoto was very aware of.

He took a moment, collecting his thoughts. "No, I guess I didn't," He began, twisting his fingers together.

The boy--Mao--gave him a once over, an odd, quizzical look in his eyes. "If you'd like, I can leave you be." He stated, facing forward once again and training his eyes ahead of him. The new, regal tone in his voice catching Makoto off guard.

"It's alright..." He paused, unsure of what to say before Mao cut his thoughts short.

"Is your eyesight bad?" The other was suddenly a little closer, his voice a little quieter.

"What?" Makoto tried, stepping away, uncomfortable with how close the prince had gotten.

"You seemed unfocused a moment ago," Mao started, catching himself--probably realizing how rude the question he asked really was. "Ah... I apologize, that was wrong of me to ask..." He laughed awkwardly, running a gloved hand through his hair.

Makoto waved his hand, a small nervous laugh escaping him. "No,no, it's alright..." He stepped back into place, lining his eyes with the floor. "I just have trouble seeing things that are far away..."

The other hummed and Makoto could see him stealing glances up at his face. There was a small moment of silence between them before Mao cleared his throat.

"I suppose I'll be seeing you again soon," He smiled, turning fully to face Makoto. "It was really a pleasure to meet you."

Makoto startled, straightening up. "You think?" He tilted his head.

Mao was a little too far away for Makoto to catch his expression clearly, but he thought he saw the boy glance away for only a moment. 

"I assume so. I haven't seen my father smile at a conference in years." He began, firmly patting Makoto's shoulder. "It's sort of a relief, really..." He laughed.

Makoto nervously laughed along with him as he pulled at the cuff of his jacket. "I'll bet you've been through quite a few of these meetings recently. That must be tiring..." 

"Yes, I suppose." Mao sighed. "I hope you won't be too disappointed to be marrying someone you hardly know." He smiled: a sweet, pretty smile with his eyebrows creased downwards in something similar to pity.

"Ah...no, you don't have to worry about anything like that!" Makoto reassured, an embarassed blush spreading on his cheeks once again.

An awkward silence settled over them for only a moment before his mother's hand lay at rest on his shoulder blade, ushering him to the door before he could give a proper goodbye to the other prince or his parents. While Makoto was certainly relieved, seeing that this boy he was most likely to be married to wasn't some old man--he also couldn't calm his nerves; his thoughts were getting ahead of him. He couldn't get the idea of living in that unfamiliar palace with no one to guide him and no one to give him solace for the rest of his days; couldn't lay to rest the thought of possibly never seeing the flowers in his mother's garden or even simply being able to clearly see the sunrise on the horizon. He knew his father was intent on keeping his face free of any kind of aid to his eyesight--he was firm in the belief that Makoto's greatest quality was was clear skin and his pretty, spotless face and didn't approve of him wearing glasses outside of his own bedroom. He doubted he'd be able to bring them with him if he were to live away from home.

He could live that way, he believed. He'd lived nearly 18 years thus far with his horrible eyesight, and had accepted that as one of his defects. 

...

When he got home that night, Makoto collapsed on his bed. The old, outdated black frames of his glasses pressed into his nose uncomfortably--but at least he could clearly see the stars out the window next to him. He tugs them off of his face, pressing the fabric of of his sleeve into the glass, wiping clean the fingerprints that littered their surfaces. Letting his hands fall to his sides, he stared out the window. Today was long; far too long. As soon as he had entered the car, his father had explained how well the meeting had gone, going into details about how fond Mao's father seemed of Makoto--which seemed odd in his opinion, but he didn't say so. His father had patted his shoulder, smiling and congratulating him for something he hadn't even contributed in achieving. But now, lying in his bed, it felt like a fever dream. It felt like he was on edge, and had been all day. His father had told him that he had gone ahead and arranged Makoto's engagement with the other prince--which immediately set him into a short bout of panic. His mother had held his hand. 

But now, he was alone. Alone in his room, stuck with the knowledge that he only had a max of a week left in his own bed. He tried not to think too hard as he tucked his old glasses into his pillowcase--hoping they'd be of use at least a few more times. Now, as the lights flicked off, he was alone in the dark, his thoughts swirling. He wondered how long he'd be alone before he wasted away.

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiii this is a long au i made up when talkin to carl and now its HUGE,,, so  
yeah this will be long if i keep up with it!  
but i hope you guys liked this first part!! itll get interesting soon, i swear!  
-Becca  
(@yuuniioo/yuuniiuwu)


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